


The Anger of the Ages

by oddgingerout1987



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, i don't know what this is i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddgingerout1987/pseuds/oddgingerout1987
Summary: Elissa Cousland has taken on the Joining and become one of the fabled warriors, a Grey Warden, with the memories of her slain family fresh in her mind. Thrust into the role brought on by darkness, treachery, and foolishness, she must command a party of misfits, battle monstrosities, and face each consequence without fail. How long can she undergo such a task with her party watching every step? If she succeeds.. what next? What would the Warden do during the struggles in Kirkwall and during the Inquisition? Here's hoping I know enough words to keep this going until we find out.





	The Anger of the Ages

**Author's Note:**

> Dear good grief, I haven't published writing for a long time, so please be gentle. I adore the Dragon Age series and if there are differences from canon, bear with me.

_**Prologue** _

It had become something of a habit, a strange tradition in the camp for a few things to happen as darkness fell. When the sun began to set, the air chilling to its miserable degree, the party gathered and readied camp if that hadn’t been done already.

Since Wynne joined the Warden, as she was most often referred to as, on the quest, camp was usually one of the first things settled. Most everyone was too afraid of disappointing her to ignore the soft-spoken request.

Regardless, after camp, the fire was made and shifts assigned through straws drawn, injuries still healing, or just the general fatigue. Shale, who essentially didn’t need sleep, was always first to volunteer after she had taken a liking to the Warden and noticed the shadows under her eyes, and the second varied.

Nobody ever let the Warden take watch, despite her protests.

Sometimes, if their travels hadn’t been riddled with blood and chaos, stories were told. Zevran with his wild extravagance that was, oddly enough, ravishingly elegant at the same time, Wynne with the stories both holding a moral meaning and unexpectedly naughty at times. Alistair could rarely finish his own, often doubling over in laughter, and most everyone couldn’t understand Ogden’s through his thickening slur but nodded along encouragingly.

Sten’s stories usually scared the hell out of everyone, Shale ranted about pigeons, and Morrigan tended to snarl her disinterest (despite attentively paying attention to each tale told.)

But Leiliana.. she told the best ones. Most of which were made up, some about Andraste, it didn’t matter. Somehow, her voice became far more soothing than Wynne’s, enough so that Alistair would start nodding off and Ogden would begin snoring halfway through. The Warden always listened silently with her eyes laughing in the firelight as they ate dinner, armor glinting dully from the flames.

Elissa Cousland never took off her armor until it was time to sleep. She slept with a dagger under her pillow and sword not that far away. It was less of paranoia and more towards survival.

That night, though, the one before they would reach the capital and confront the traitorous bastard Loghain, she did not listen to the stories but kept to her tent, withdrawn from the others. Alistair sat nearby, nervously tapping his updrawn knees.

The Warden—Elissa—had become a good friend of his. While his heart had fluttered once in a while at her smile, their friendship was far dearer than a dalliance. For that, for their almost sibling-like relationship, he noticed things. Not to discredit what the others saw or to put himself up on a pedestal, but he noticed things. She usually spoke often, just enough to get the point across, but had since become silent, her eyes harder and lips firmly pressed. When she attacked, it was colder, a little more brutal, like mercy wasn’t a possibility anymore.

When they walked paths, silent as they possibly could be, she walked out front, but Alistair could see the weight on her shoulders bearing down. He could see the way she looked at one of the women in camp. How her eyes no longer met theirs.

“You- you know,” he began after about an hour of silence. “I was thinking.”

“How many times have I told you to be careful with that,” came the soft voice within.

“Countless. Endless, really. I hear you say that in my dreams. Not-not that I dream of you!”

“Breaking my heart, Ali, breaking it to pieces.”

“Would. You. Let. Me. Talk?” At least, he thought, she still had her sense of humor. “Anyway, I was thinking perhaps we should plan for tomorrow.”

That brought on silence. It was understandable, she usually came up with the schemes and plans, despite a preference for the good ol’ sword therapy of battle. Then her head poked out, her nightshirt baggy around her lithe frame. Should be, it used to be his that she conned from him after hers was ripped to the Maker and back during a night raid of bandits. Sun-kissed curls were mussed from her fingers and damp from a river bath still. Silver-tipped blue eyes narrowed at him and she slapped a palm to his forehead.

“Ow! Maker’s breath, I’m not sick! Get your handsiness away from me, woman.”

That earned him a flick to the nose, which he snickered at, despite the pain. Still, she sat at the entrance of her tent with her massive stolen shirt and loose pants, watching as Shale turned with slow, rumbling shuffles like some sort of rotating statue.

They’d both had that thought once and had giggled their way halfway to Redcliffe, effectively annoying Morrigan.

“Alright, stop your protesting before you wake up Wynne and we both die painfully,” Elissa hushed, settling in her spot. “What’s your plan, battle master?”

“A bloody gorgeous parade.”

“Oh by the Maker, I’m going back to bed.”

“No, listen! We could distract the entire snooty lot of them, just sail on it, and bam! You take the throne and I can be the court jester.”

“That position has already been filled.”

“Wh- By who?!”

“…Loghain?”

“By the breath of all things,” a wisened, gentle voice sounded from a nearby tent, “-if you two children do not stop chattering, I will twist your ears until they fall off.”

Alistair and Elissa looked at each other with wide eyes. “Sorry, Wynne,” they said in unison. They both heard the soft laughter of Leiliana and Zevran and grinned anyway.

Sometimes, on the brink of death, a good bit of laughter was needed.

It wouldn’t, Elissa mused as sleep began to take her, change the past, but it helped.


End file.
